


To Track the Beast

by Dorinda



Category: Peacemakers (2003)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Law Enforcement, M/M, Post-Canon, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:17:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/pseuds/Dorinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch hesitated by the back door into the parlor, where the door curtains had been drawn against the night. He'd become accustomed to just walking in of an evening, and it felt strange to stop himself. But he couldn't quite imagine Stone being as happy to see him as he had been lately, looking up over his glasses with that smile that some might almost call shy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Track the Beast

Finch settled into the armchair that had somehow become his, in Stone's belatedly-finished parlor that had somehow become theirs.

"Cheers," he said, lifting his tumbler of whisky.

Stone reached to clink their glasses together from his own comfortable seat in his own armchair. The lamp glowed low and even, casting warm amber and shadows across his face. He was no longer inscrutable to Finch—now the smallest change of his eyes or his mouth said volumes. As he drank, he looked over the glass at Finch, and that was usual; but there was a decisive sparkle to his eye that wasn't, quite.

"That is good," Stone said, and licked a droplet from his upper lip.

"I told you." 

"You did." Stone drank again, slowly. "Dunno if it was waiting-two-months good, but..."

They smiled at each other. And Finch knew without conscious thought what Stone's next words were going to be. He felt a clench of anticipation in the pit of his stomach, fear and excitement combined.

"Say, Finch. It's getting late." To his credit—and to Finch's surprise, even now—Stone actually sounded rather relaxed. "You maybe want to come up and—"

"Marshal!" A voice shouted from outside. Fists pounded on the door, rapid and hard. "Marshal Stone!"

"Chipper?" Stone was up fast, his hard-won reflexes not hampered by anything as mundane as whisky, or midnight, or a personal suggestion to a late guest. He flung the door open. "Chip! What the hell is it?"

Chipper looked terrible. He had no hat, and his hair was plastered sweatily all along his hairline. His face was so pale it was practically gray. Finch rose, setting his glass down carefully on the end table.

"Marshal," Chipper gasped. "There's been another one."

* * *

Stone was grim and almost silent through the rest of the night, holding lights and taking notes as Finch painstakingly examined and recorded the details of the crime scene. The body was removed to Katie's for an autopsy.

When Finch and Katie stepped out of Owen's Mortuary into the cloudy gloom of mid-morning, Stone was waiting for them, arms crossed tight over his chest.

Finch didn't make him ask. "The same," he said. "Same age and race, same build, killed the same way. Precisely."

"No one in the rest of the mining camp knows him. Or admits to knowing him." Stone tugged his hat lower.

"Well, they wouldn't want to admit it, would they," Katie said.

Stone shrugged. "Easy for a man like that to blend in around here. Older fellow, down on his luck, scraping for mine work...describes half the silver camps or more."

"It's definitely helpful for our killer," Finch said. "Large populations of anonymous people, coming and going all the time, not well off or well connected..."

"The safest place to be unnoticed," Katie said.

"I can keep my distance, bide my time..." Finch tapped his chin contemplatively.

"Exactly," Katie said. "As long as you fit in."

Finch nodded, smiling at her. "Very tempting. A perfect collection of prey."

"Finch!" Stone said explosively, and both Finch and Katie stared at him. He yanked his hat off and slapped it against his thigh. "They're not prey. They're human beings!"

"No," Finch began, and then, "I mean—yes, but not to our man."

"We're not supposed to be like him. People aren't supposed to be... _objects_ to us, to be broken apart at our pleasure." Stone eyed the specimen case swinging from Finch's hand, ready for the laboratory. "Sometimes I wonder if you forget that."

Finch blinked, drawing his mind forcibly back from the collection of details and data he'd been storing away. Stone's hair was tumbled awry from the sudden removal of his hat, and his eyes were bright with something like rage.

"Marshal," Katie said carefully. People passing by on the far side of the street were slowing to look, muttering delightedly to each other.

Stone turned to her as if she had answers, his fist working on the brim of his hat. Then he said desperately, "Someone knows him. Someone _must_. I'm gonna find out."

And he was gone without another word, his boots heavy on the boards.

All at once a deep weariness washed over Finch, every missed hour of sleep coming back to visit him. "I had better... I should examine our specimens, while the trail is still fresh."

Katie took his arm gently. "He'll be all right. He just takes these things too hard."

Finch hefted his case a few times, feeling the weight of it. "I'm glad someone still can," he said. "I suppose I wish I could."

"Well I don't," she said in her no-nonsense way, and squeezed his arm. "Get to work, Detective."

He mustered a smile, though from her face he didn't think it was very convincing. And he retreated to his laboratory—where despite the knot of guilt in his stomach and the memory of Jared's burning eyes, he fell into the joy of the details. The microscope focused down to a pinpoint, making everything so perfectly clear.

* * *

Finch hesitated by the back door into the parlor, where the door curtains had been drawn against the night. He'd become accustomed to just walking in of an evening, and it felt strange to stop himself. But he couldn't quite imagine Stone being as happy to see him as he had been lately, looking up over his glasses with that smile that some might almost call shy. 

Instead, Finch tucked his file more firmly under one arm and walked around to the front door where the office was. The business entrance. After all, this was business.

"Marshal," he said as he entered. He tried to keep his tone level and sober, despite the exciting discoveries stowed in the file. 

"Detective," Stone said from his desk.

"I've finished my investigation of the evidence from the body. And I have details on the murder weapon, at last." He couldn't help it, he started smiling as he slapped the file down and flipped it open to reveal the top stack of photographic enlargements. "Look! With this victim, finally, the shot didn't pass through. The murderer couldn't retrieve all his traces!"

"So we have the bullet," Stone said, leaning over to squint at the top picture.

"Even better," Finch said, exultant. "We have the ball."

Stone looked up at him, alert as a hunting hound striking point.

"Oh yes." Finch leaned over with him, and their shoulders pressed together. Stone pulled his glasses out and perched them on his nose, and he followed Finch's tapping finger as the photos spread out over the desk. "Beautiful shape. From a .36 caliber cap-and-ball pistol." 

"Cap and ball," Stone mused. "That sure rules out a lot of weapons."

"Let me rule out a few more," Finch said, and pulled several pictures and a tracing from the stack. "Remember that strange bruising? I got a closer look at it...see what you think."

Stone looked from image to tracing and back again, something dawning in his face.

"I'm no expert on American firearms, especially ones of this vintage," Finch said. "But this looks to be the shape of a gun butt. It shows the pattern of a metal strap fastened across it—a distinctive repair. And this..." he lightly ran his fingertips along a shadow in the shape of a star. "—this is clearly the maker's mark imprinted on the victim, and I hoped you might...?"

"I do know it," Stone said slowly. "Revolver. Reb make. Rare, too. Haven't seen one of those since... Well." He pulled the delicate tracing paper over the photograph, delicately aligning the edges with his callused fingertips. "Been a long time."

Finch nodded, suddenly feeling awkward. As when anything reminded Stone of the war of his youth, Finch seemed to feel the beginnings of a powerful and melancholy constraint rising between them. He started gathering up his photographs, subdued. "At least this should give us something to go on. More than we had before."

"Mm-hm," Stone said, still gazing at the tracing. Finch retrieved everything else in silence.

"I'll wish you good night, then," Finch said at last, and slid the photo and tracing across the desk toward himself.

But Stone put his hand down flat on their surface. "Where you off to?"

Finch looked at him, startled. That distant haze was gone, and Stone's eyes were awake and warm.

"You haven't even asked me about _my_ investigations today," Stone said. "And I could swear we still had most of a bottle of that Irish rotgut you bought me."

"Rotgut—!" Finch said, drawing himself up.

Stone smiled. "Come on."

He locked up the office and led the way into the parlor, scratching a match to light one of the lamps.

They settled into their chairs, with their glasses and their drop of the Irish. Stone sipped with obvious contentment. Finch let his first taste linger on the back of his tongue for a long time before swallowing, reaching for the patience he'd cultivated in his time here. The old Finch would have waved off the drink and demanded the facts—the old Finch, in fact, had been very bad at delayed gratification.

At last, he swallowed and savored the aftertaste. Savored, too, the familiarity of Stone sitting with him. The phonograph, the shelf of their mingled books, the chessboard: it all spoke of welcome, and of promise. 

"Well," Finch said, after a second sip. "And how was your day?"

Stone gave a little breath that was almost a laugh. "I thought you'd never ask." He straightened up, his face alight with interest. "Someone _did_ know him, or at least knew what he said of himself. And knew he was lying when he said it."

"Lying how?"

"Miner named Ruiz told me the man called himself Jones. Talked about his War service in the Third Colorado infantry. Told tales about his heroics at Glorieta Pass. You know, saved the day, beat down them lousy Texan Grey Backs."

Finch nodded politely. But Stone grinned. "Finch, the Third Colorado didn't fight at Glorieta. Ruiz said he figured he'd eat his hat if Jones had fought for the Union at all."

"Or if his name was even Jones."

"Right." Stone gestured with his whisky glass, not seeming to notice a little slopping over the rim onto his fingers. "So your reb pistol is right on the money. There's a personal connection. Some fellow Southern soldier out there who knew who he really was."

"And who found it important to kill him with a Confederate cap-and-ball pistol," Finch said. "Old by now, but carefully repaired."

"That repair has nice sharp edges, too," Stone said. "Looks fresh to me. Probably has to have that strap replaced regularly to keep the butt from cracking apart." He put his glass down and sucked whisky off his fingers unselfconsiously. "How'd you feel about going to Durango?"

Finch was distracted for a moment by Stone's mouth and hand, and had to clear his throat abruptly. "Uh—yes, Durango." His brain caught up. "...Why?"

"Durango has the gunsmiths you'd need for that work. Someone repaired that old thing, and someone's gonna remember it."

"And the killings have never strayed too far," Finch mused thoughtfully. He could see a map of Colorado in his mind, the murder sites sparking bright one by one, lines tracing back to Durango.

"Nope." 

Finch felt the fresh energy of the chase. "I'd be delighted to take a trip. First thing tomorrow, if you'll give me a list of gunsmiths to take with me."

"Oh, no," Stone said. He slouched back down and lifted his glass. "I'm coming with you."

His voice held an invitation, and Finch could see a fine hotel and a steak dinner, both of them in polished shoes instead of boots for a change. And a room, private and quiet, the eiderdown folded back over crisp sheets and two pillows.

He cleared his throat again. "Well! I'm...delighted."

"So you said." Stone drank, watching him.

"And so I am," Finch said softly.

They sat quietly for a few minutes after that, the silence curling out between them both comfortable and crackling. Finch sipped his whisky in the tiniest drops, letting them mingle with air to bloom the flavor, as he internally debated whether to revisit their conflict of the morning.

On the one hand, now it was moot, the question of a killer with no motive but his own hunger. But on the other hand...it wouldn't be moot always. And Finch knew himself well enough to know that when it rose again, it would come between them again. He watched Stone, his warmth and his comfort and his hard-won trust, and saw himself destroying this peace with a poorly-chosen word. 

But at last, he set his glass down with a thump. If his time here with Stone meant anything, it meant that they were no longer the strangers they had been. They had so much more between them now, woven flexible and robust, and their differences were tied into the mesh as much as their similarities were. The bond they'd made was stronger than any single thread, and it could catch them if they stumbled. 

"I'm sorry. About this morning." He knew that the old Finch would have gasped to hear him say so. _Good riddance to you, you stiff-necked boy,_ he thought uncharitably.

"Nah, nah," Stone answered at once. He looked uncomfortable. "I shouldn't've... I didn't mean it. It was a long night. "

Finch nodded agreeably. He hesitated for a second, almost willing to drop it despite his resolution...but he forged ahead. "I know you hate a muddy motive."

"No trouble now," Stone said. "This Jones, or whoever he is, something's come back on him from the War—maybe they served together, we'll see if the others had any Confederate ties. But there's a reason, a _real_ reason. And we're gonna find it."

"We are," Finch said. "And there is, this time. But it seems fair to say that there may not always be."

Stone looked at him, seemingly unwilling to pretend not to understand. "You mean like that Jack the Ripper."

"I do," Finch said. "Or Dr. Cream. Or George Chapman, for that matter."

"Chapman was after money," Stone said at once, rallying. "That's a motive right there."

"Perhaps so. And maybe the Bender family only wanted their victims' money as well, although the—" Finch shut his mouth on that, and forcibly made himself resist getting into their old argument again. "I'm saying that we have to leave ourselves open to other motives."

"No motive, you mean." Stone's eyes were increasingly unhappy. But they weren't burning with that anger of the morning; they were open and sorrowful, but willing to take these steps side-by-side with him no matter how painfully it went against his nature.

"No motive as ordinary as money," Finch said. "Or jealousy. Or anything else rising from a personal connection."

"Predators and prey."

Finch nodded carefully.

"Jesse Pomeroy. That Boston Belfry case. The one in Austin they never caught."

"Yes," Finch said. 

"Finch," Stone said tightly. He pressed thumb and finger against his eyes.

"I know," Finch said. _I'm sorry,_ he felt himself wanting to add, as strange as that would have sounded. "It's rare, thank goodness, but it does happen. And we can't rule it out just because it's not like you."

"Us."

Finch opened his hands helplessly. "As you say."

"No, Finch, say it. It's not like _us_. You can't tell me you're like any of those..." He curled his fists over the ends of his chair arms. "Like any of them." He looked a desperate apology at him. "I shouldn't have said that this morning, and I know it isn't true."

"Truer than I'd like, maybe," Finch said. Quickly, as Stone winced, he added, "Please don't. I know you didn't mean it, honestly. But you have to know, I..." He sighed. He couldn't keep looking into Stone's eyes. He let himself look at the lamp's flame instead, steady layers of gold over red over blue. "I think I'll always be able to see it. To imagine it. Almost to understand it. When I'm putting the pieces together, seeing how they fit, I can... There's room for it, in my mind."

Stone didn't say anything, and Finch didn't look at him. "I just wanted you to know that," he finished.

He had to close his eyes against the lamp flame after a while, and the afterimage glowed green against the darkness. He imagined Stone's face gone taciturn and suspicious, like he'd been when they'd first met: the old Finch and the old Stone at drawn daggers, repulsed like the far poles of two magnets. But he didn't feel younger, imagining himself back there. He felt tired, and lost.

Warm square fingers traced over the back of his hand and settled there, a heavy even pressure. "Thank God you're here, Finch."

Finch looked at him. The grey-green echo of the flame hovered for a moment more over Stone's face, and faded. He was staring at Finch with an intensity that admitted no shyness, no hesitation. "I mean it. I thank God for you. You can see these things. You can wonder the things I just...can't."

Finch tried to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again. "You know that when I get—eager about it, you know it's not... I don't enjoy the fact that..."

Stone squeezed his hand. "I know it. Me neither. It's the hunt."

"Remember it," Finch almost pleaded. "For next time." His former self would surely have fainted dead away, or struck him across the face with a glove and demanded satisfaction. Finch wished him joy of it, while he himself lifted his hand and gripped Stone's in open answer. He had become who he had become. They were to each other who they were, and he wouldn't change it for anything that anyone could name.

Stone nodded, holding so tight it almost hurt. "Stay," he said suddenly. "Will you stay tonight?"

"What about Durango?"

"Train's not till mid-morning. You can pack a bag after breakfast."

"Yes I can," Finch said. "And yes. I will."

In the end, it was he who led Jared upstairs by the light of a candle. Once out of the boots and star, Jared was awkward and gentle, holding Finch's face between his big warm hands and looking at him a long time before kissing him. 

He was very quiet, which was no surprise, but he also never showed a single moment of doubt, which was a surprise indeed—a surprise and a comfort. He held Finch carefully, like something breakable, and accepted tenderness in return without any brusque playacting. 

For a little while, with Jared clinging to him and breathing unevenly in his ear, Finch wondered about his past, and his other friends, and who he might have lost. But then Jared kissed his neck so softly and whispered his name, the only word he'd spoken, and Finch lost himself in the here and now. 

Eventually they slept, taking a night of peace for their own before another day of the hunt.

* * *

On the train to Durango, Finch looked up from a magnified inspection of the repair mark photographs to see Stone watching him.

"Hm?" he said. It felt like he might have fallen into the photographs in the middle of a sentence. Maybe even his own.

"Nothin'," Stone said. "We'll be there soon—better finish up with your clues, Detective."

Finch nodded absently, his mind still running on issues of lividity, bruise depth and angle, capillary spread. As he lowered his head and peered through his glass, he heard a little noise from Stone's direction—part sigh, part breathy laugh, all good natured. He felt warm at that, comfortable in a way he'd never known he could be. So he let himself fall into the evidence the way he wanted, knowing that Stone would be there when he came back.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mary crawford for beta help!


End file.
